


A Tale of Love

by Sugarchev



Series: Be a Fairy Tale [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-04-11 13:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19110931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugarchev/pseuds/Sugarchev
Summary: “Stamkos, bring the boy, please?” Father motions. Lord Stamkos ushers in a tall, skinny-looking servant that Tony barely spares a second glance.“Tony, this is Mikhail,” Lord Stamkos says. “He’s been highly-trained to serve you,  the King-in-waiting.” Stamkos turns to the servant. “Isn’t that right?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, guys! Chapters will be posted every Wednesday and Sunday.
> 
> (This would not be at all possible without my endlessly lovely beta, @verbaeghe <3 Thank you for your generosity and patience!)

  
It’s a sultry summer day in the Thunder Coast, the kingdom’s capital of sandstone villages, bustling docks and, despite the name, eternal sun.  
  
Today the sun sits high atop its throne in the sky, casting rays upon the children splashing through the central fountains and the men and women dancing through the harbor. Indeed, it’s a special day.  
  
Today Prince Tony, second-in-line to King Anton the Kind’s throne behind his brother, Brayden, has reached his nineteenth nameday and become a man.  
  
A great line snakes up the city steps,which are packed to the brim with the boisterous cacophony of chatter and bard’s instruments Where jubilant citizens wait to bestow blessings and gifts upon their fair prince.  
  
But behind the marbled, impenetrable walls of Amalie Palace, things are not quite so jovial.  
  
__  
  
“What do you mean, he’s decided to stay?” Tony yells, snatching the parchment from King Anton’s hand.  
  
“Tony, we spoke of this,” his father soothes.He’s using Benevolent King voice and Tony doesn’t appreciate it at all.. “When Brayden left with Prince Killorn, you knew there was a very good chance he—“  
  
“Would what? Never return?” Tony asks, crumbling the parchment. “Abandon his home and everything he’s ever trained for to be King of what, the desert?”  
  
‘Abandon me,’ Tony thinks. His closest companion, his only brother leaving him alone because he was swept off his feet by some over-tanned, scholarly-  
  
“Tony, this is what he wants,” Anton says. “Uniting our house with Killorn will prove very valuable for our defenses. Brayden will return, and frequently, so please cease these dramatics. Men cannot afford time for such things, and especially not Kings.”  
  
The realization hits Tony hard, fills his stomach with stones. The only reason his father’s allowed this is because he has another heir. He…  
  
“We’ve cause for twice the celebration today,” cheers Lord Stamkos, Father’s right hand man. “And I do suggest you take advantage, dear Prince, because your classes commence tomorrow. You’ve much more to learn.”  
  
Tony looks between them, tight-lipped and red. About a million emotions twist through him, and none of them are cause for celebration. He’d been taught to prepare for this, of course, but never thought it would happen like this. The crown was to be Brayden’s, and Tony was to be his Hand.

That was their plan, dammit.  
  
“Stamkos, bring the boy, please?” Father motions. Lord Stamkos ushers in a tall, skinny-looking servant that Tony barely spares a second glance.  
  
“Tony, this is Mikhail,” Lord Stamkos says. “He’s been highly-trained to serve you, the King-in-waiting.” Stamkos turns to the servant. “Isn’t that right?”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” the boy bows, and that low-toned Northern accent gets Tony to take another look. He’s young, right around Tony’s own age, with a mop of golden-brown hair and eyes to match. He bows low before Tony, which make him glance over at the King in question.  
  
“He’s to be your new servant from henceforth,” King Anton explains. “Sworn to never to stray from your side, always present, should you ever need anything.”  
  
Tony’s a bit taken aback by the blank, yet intense face the kid is giving him. He looks like he’d take a sword through his chest for Tony without complaint. It’s a little unnerving and he doesn’t know what to say to him.  
  
But it doesn’t really matter; he’s not here for pleasantries. He starts to open his mouth to make another objection, but he’s silenced with a raised hand.  
  
“Mikhail, if you would, please take the Prince to his chambers,” Anton says. “He’s much to process, and a party to prepare for.” A little scowl darkens his features. “Which he is not to delay the start of.”  
  
Tony just sneers, gives a sarcastic little bow. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Grace.”  
  
//  
  
“What would you ask of me, your Highness?” Mikhail asks. They’re alone now, but he’s still keeping his head bowed.  
Tony’s brow twitches. He’s still fuming, and _evidently_ , he can’t be left alone to process it. _Apparently_ , has to tell this boy-no, the King-in-waiting’s servant- how to perform his duties. That’s some amazing training that he has. Tony wants to roll his eyes. Instead he just turns away from Mikhail.  
  
“What would I ask of you?” Tony repeats, slinking down in his chair. Wouldn’t his father be aghast at such posture. “I don’t know, feed me, dress me, draw my bath? Change my linens, fluff my pillows and read me stories. I shouldn’t need to tell you.”  
  
It comes out harsh, Tony knows the second he stops for a breath. He sighs, turns and-  
  
Mikhail is practically a blur, pulling garments from his wardrobe and draping them over the chaise. He moves to strip his bed and Tony raises a hand.  
  
“Mikhail-“ he says, stopping him in his tracks. His voice is softer, lacking the previous bite. “Not...I didn’t mean right now.”  
  
Mikhail lowers his hands, face unchanging. “This does not please his Highness?”  
  
“No,” Tony runs a hand through his hair, turns back in his chair. “Yes. Just...now is not a good time.”  
  
“But now is the best time. It’s his Highness’ Name Day.”  
  
Mikhail comes to a stop at the window next to him, peels back thick, velvet curtains from the casement windows. Tony squints, shying away from the bright light that illuminates the room.  
  
“Can you hear them, your Highness?” Mikhail asks, unlatching the glass. The minstrel’s music is muted but jovial, a steady thrum of drums, lutes and recorders, and a garbled chorus of revelers streams in through the open window.  
  
“Come, see how they celebrate that you, their future king, has come of age.”  
  
“Future king,” Tony sighs, not looking up. “Yes, I hear them. Now, could you close the-“  
  
Calloused hands close around his, hoisting him up from his provisional throne of self-pity. He’s surprised by the boy’s brazen familiarity, but it’s trumped by the festive scenes and fireworks from the village below.  
  
“It’s…a sight,” Tony says finally, tracking the golden sparks that soar toward the sun.  
  
“You should see them at nightfall,” Mikhail sighs, and it’s not until then Tony realizes their hands are still clasped.  
  
He’s quick to let go, shuffle two steps to the right and keep his gaze pointedly at the festival. He blushes, but that’s probably just because he’s never liked these things. The attention.  
  
“I know what they look like at night,“ Tony deflects, turning away. “I mean, I’m glad they have an excuse to celebrate, but it’s not for me.”  
  
“I beg your pardon, your Highness, but you’re far from an excuse.” Mikhail says. “You’re a reason. The people, they love you. I--”  
  
Tony stops, casting his gaze over his shoulder. It’s the first time the boy’s emotions have shown a sign of life, and it piques his curiosity.  
  
“One day, the kingdom will be yours,” Mikhail says. “The people will be yours, and in turn, you will serve as their champion and protector. But if their King doesn’t believe in his own aptitude, then how can they?”  
  
Tony swallows, takes it all in. It’s a lot, and Mikhail’s giving him that ‘I’d take a sword for you’ look again, so he clears his throat.  
  
“I should get ready for the party.”  
  
//  
  
Tony doesn’t much move from his spot in the dining hall at the evening fete. He stands like a proper prince, waves once his father is done gushing to the crowd about his embrace with manhood, gods, how embarrassingly obnoxious, and sits right back down, sticking his nose into his mug of mead.  
  
“What’s wrong, little Prince?”  
  
Tony doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s Victor, Lord Commander of the Guard. He flops down next to Tony, dipping the bench with his weight. Even seated, Victor’s massive frame looms over him, makes him feel like a child again.  
  
“You’re going to have to find a new nickname for me,” Tony snarks. “Not so little anymore, didn’t you hear the speech?”  
  
“Nonsense.” Victor’s cheeks are rosy with drink, almost the same hue as the stark pink birthmark that stains his jaw. “Unless you plan to sprout another six inches, you’re always going to be a little Prince.”  
  
Tony eyes him fondly. He doesn't much feel like talking to anybody, but Victor isn’t just anybody. Never has been.  
  
“Don’t you have someone else to bother?”  
  
“Not really. Cally’s telling the story of how he captured Clearwater Fortress again, so you are the more appealing alternative.”  
  
“And there I was, disarmed, with nothing but my shield and an oak branch!” Tony impersonates. They both laugh and for a moment, everything feels normal.  
  
But then Lord Stamkos approaches, discreetly ducks his head between the two of them. “His Majesty will be making your announcement at the evening’s conclusion.” He frowns and Tony frets for his next words. “You’ll be expected to say a few words.”  
  
And that, he is not ready for. Not ready for eyes on him, or to spew some self-inflated lie of a speech about how he’s dreamt of this his whole life.  
  
He needs to get out of here. Right now.  
  
Tony excuses himself and neither men complain—Tony knows they’ve been dancing around each other for a while now and who knows, maybe his absence will help them along.  
  
It isn’t like there’s anyone out there for _him._  
  
“Something is wrong, your Highness?” Comes what could only be Mikhail’s voice and damn, he’s caught.  
  
“No, Mikhail,” Tony puts on his best fake smile, but it comes out more as a grimace. “Just in need of some air. Too much mead, and it’s hard to breathe in this doublet.”  
  
“Have I tied it too tight?”  
  
“No, it’s fine, really” Tony tries to brush by but Mikhail catches his wrist and now, Tony really does blame the mead for the way it halts him.  
  
“Perhaps his Highness should sit down.”  
  
“I’ve been sitting down all night. I just need some air.”  
  
“Of course, let us repair to the courtyard.”  
  
“No, Mikhail. You stay.”  
  
“Your High-“  
  
“Will you let go?”  
  
He’s immediately released, and doesn’t linger. Doesn’t look back, doesn’t want to think about how he must have sounded. He ducks out of the dining hall and sticks to the shadows down his clandestine route to the stables.  
  
Far, far into the Boltwood he rides, leaving the Thunder Coast and its revelers far behind.  
  
  
  


 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the shift to Tony's perspective following the timestamp.
> 
> (And another HUGE thank you to my spectacular beta, @verbaeghe, for her time and assistance <3)

“Will you let go?”

The Prince’s voice scalds Mikhail’s hand right off his wrist.

He’s out of line, he knows, but can he be blamed for trying to protect the one he’s sworn to?

The one he loves.

He watches his Prince walk away, and again finds himself as the little lost Nordling boy with no recollection of how he came to the Thunder Coast. The boy whose only clue when he woke up on the side of a road just outside town was a bracelet inscribed with MIKHAIL on one side and MY SWEET MISHA on the other. A bracelet long since sold for food.

Mikhail met Prince Tony on a warm winter day, first laying eyes on the prince as a boy of twelve who was having entirely too much fun sloshing through the mud of the slums.

His Highness was bringing a gift to the people, his carriage weighed down with as much freshly baked bread it could carry. And, one by one, each and every family got supper hand-delivered from the Amalie Palace.

When Prince Tony reached Mikhail he paused and cocked his head before he gave a little nod and turned. Then, though Misha was clearly a child of the streets with no family in sight, turned back with an entire baguette.

He said something as he handed it over, but the words had been foreign to Mikhail’s ears, as he still couldn’t understand a lick of the common tongue.It didn’t matter, because Tony’s smile had provided all the translation he needed.

The one small moment was enough. It had filled his heart with love when he’d once he thought all was lost. And had guided his way from the streets to the servants doors of the palace, where he’d been able to start on the bottom rung as a servant, been able to love Tony from afar.

Where he pored his soul into becoming someone worthy enough to repay him.

Today is supposed to be his life’s greatest achievement, but he can’t help but feel like a failure when a third person asks where Tony is.

He doesn’t tell them he followed Tony to the stables, only to lose him when he jumped on his horse and slipped away into the night.

King Anton’s furious, but everyone else has done just enough revelling to not be concerned with the price’s whereabouts. Misha needs something to do, so he helps Adam and Mathieu tend to the kitchen, ignoring how they tease him for being too fancy now..

He works for hours, but Tony doesn’t reappear , so he retires upstairs to his new quarters alone with nothing left to do but fret. He looks around at his bare walls and desk and sighs. Even if he wanted to write about his day, he’s yet to be supplied with paper and quill.

Hell, he can’t even watch the moon, as there isn’t a window in here.

He sits on his straw bed with nothing but the light of one lantern illuminating his room, squeezing his hands together in worry. It’s his first night, and here he is sitting here unsure where the prince is, unable to say that he’s done his job, that he’s ensured the Prince is safe and tucked away into bed.

He rests his head against the wall, hoping to pick up any sounds from the adjoining room. Nothing happens for, well, it has to be ages even though Mikhail can’t really track the time passing.

Mikhail’s eyes start to droop, nearly closing against his will, when a tiny creak startles them open. It’s late, and maybe he shouldn’t check on a prince who so desperately wanted to be alone, but it’s something that he has to do. He made a promise.

The Prince gets a single, courteous knock before he enters, brandishing naught but a lantern.

“Gods!” Tony jumps from his wardrobe. “Mikhail, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Not really,” Mikhail says, setting his light on an end table. “My quarters are without a window, so I couldn’t see the moon.”

“Well, it’s late,” Tony says, struggling out of his shoes. “And I didn’t expect you to wait up for me.”

“I know.” He crosses over to Tony, whose curls are wild, wind-blown, and carry with them the scent of honeysuckle and cedar.

Surely, he hadn’t wandered the Boltwood alone. And if he had company...

Mikhail tries not to let his mind wander, tries not to think about who Tony has in his life that keeps him out til’ dawn, doing Gods know what.

He focuses instead on shrugging Tony out of his frock, unbuttoning his doublet.

“I can do this myself, you know,” Tony says, even though he stays still. “I’ve troubled you enough already.”

Mikhail’s laugh is a soft, rush of air through his nose. “Forgive me, your Highness, but this is what I’m here for. Yours, to trouble away.”

He doesn’t trouble Tony with questions, keeps them all behind his lips where they belong. He helps him into his nightclothes and guides him to bed.

“Everyone I met today kept telling me I’m finally a man,” Tony says, looking amused. “But here you are, tucking me in. Now what am I supposed to believe?”

“You don’t like that,” Mikhail states, folding satin sheets beneath Tony’s chin.

“Being tucked in?”

“Being told what you are. Who you are.”

“Well, no.”

Mikhail smooths the cover over Tony’s chest, sits the appropriate distance away at the foot of the bed. “Then, you should believe what you feel. Do you feel like a man?”

He watches Tony’s knuckles curl around the bedding, bunching it closer to his face.

“I don’t know,” Tony says after a beat. “No. Maybe? It isn’t as if I underwent some magical transformation when I woke up this morning. I’m still me, but...heavier.”

“The weight has been there all along, your Highness. You were born to one day—“

“Reign?” Tony sighs. “No, that wasn’t supposed to be me. But I can’t change it now, no more than I can change me. Brayden. He was made for this. So much like my father. And the truth is, I’d be lucky to be half the king he is.”

“You’ll never be the king his Grace is.” Mikhail says easily, finding Tony’s eyes in the dim light. “Nor Brayden. But you’ll be more. You’ll be you.”

Tony looks like he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.

“Well…I’m sure I’ll get an earful from him and Stamkos tomorrow,” Tony yawns.

How easy it would be to reach out, brush that long, stray curl from his half-lidded eyes. To run his knuckles over Tony’s cheeks, the jut of them whet by what little light remains.

He raises, smoothing out the wrinkles he’s left in the comforter, and folds his hands together as if he doesn’t trust them. Right now, he maybe doesn’t.

“Rest now,” Mikhail says, and Tony looks more than happy to comply. “His Highness won’t be able to combat their wrath if he can’t keep his eyes open.”

“Mm...Mikhail?”

“Yes, your Highness?” Mikhail asks, lingering by the door.

“Thanks. For...” Tony vaguely gestures with his hand, looks decidedly too tired to find the words.

“His Highness is kind, and need not thank me for performing my duties.”

“No...I mean.” Another yawn. “For waiting up. Listening.”

“It’s why I wanted to tuck you in, your Highness,” Mikhail says. “If it pleases, I wish to be for you a manner of relieving that weight. Your trials, joys...frustration and boredom. I will always rest knowing I’ve made his Highness a bit lighter.”

Tony blinks at him, once, twice in the dark. “Yes, Mikhail...I’d like that.”

Mikhail bows, wishes him a pleasant sleep, and gently shuts the door. If he can be something to his Prince, anything at all...it will be a life well-spent.

 

//

 

Life settles into week after week of lessons and training. Training and lessons, lessons and training. Words and words and words. Sweet Six, does his head ache from all the histories Lord Stamkos is cramming into it. And don’t even get him started on all the military stuff the Sirs Ryan are trying to heap on him..

But, as promised, life with Mikhail does make him lighter. Even on Tony’s worst days, Mikhail is patient with him. Dressing him gently, offering soft words of comfort that he doesn’t even realize the need for until they happen.

Morning breakfast’s become a ritual, as has afternoon tea.

And the walks. They take so many walks around the courtyard. At any hour, day or night.Tony delights in teaching him the names of flowers during the day, and constellations at night.

Tonight, however, Tony is exhausted from a day chock full of teaching, so he’s retired early. Mikhail’s already tucked him in and is reading to him

“Mikhail.”

“Yes?” He looks over the top of his book. It’s adorable and Tony gets caught in it for a second. “Your Highness?”

He clears his throat, feels a bit like an idiot. “You’re a little too far away. Can you move a bit closer?”

“Of course.” Mikhail stands, mindlessly smooths the place he was just sitting before settling down just below Tony’s mound of pillows. He lifts the book back up, but Tony places a hand on it.

“Can you tell me a story from the North?” Tony asks, moving his head a pillow closer to Mikhail.

Mikhail looks confused by the request, but he launches into a story without complaint. It’s about an ice queen and her frozen heart, about how love solves everything.

His voice catches when Tony lays his head on a shoulder, but he otherwise continues as if nothing happened. Mikhail’s starting to get tired, Tony can tell, because his accent is starting to thicken and his conventionally careful speech is starting to slur. Just a bit. Tony lays there, listening to the rumble in Mikhail’s chest before something occurs to him.

“Mikhail?” He interrupts.

“Mm?”

“You don’t really look like a Mikhail, you know.”

“What do I look like?” He laughs, and Tony loves the way it hums through him.

“It’s just, formal is all. Like ‘Anthony’. Didn’t your family ever call you something else?”

Mikhail is quiet for a bit before answering.

“I don’t have a…” He pauses. “Misha is a nickname for Mikhail,” he says before picking up where he left off.

Tony closes his eyes. Misha. He likes that.

He likes him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change, fellers.
> 
> And thank you, @verbaeghe for continuing to be the best beta and forever helpful 😘

“My Prince, your parrying leaves something to be desired,” Lord Yanni, Master of Swords sighs. Mikhail doesn’t disagree, but Tony’s been at it for a while, and looks more than ready to call it a day.

“You there. What’s your name?”

“Mikhail, my Lord,” Mikhail bows.

“Very well, Mikhail. You’ll do.” Yanni tosses him a gambeson. “Suit up. I need you to be his partner, so I can more accurately critique his form.”

“With all due respect, my Lord, I—“ Mikhail starts.

“No, what a splendid idea,” Tony grins. “Think you can take me, Mikhail?”

He locks eyes with Tony, and oh, if there’s not a devious little challenge playing behind them.

“En garde, then,” he yields.

Tony leans into his fighting stance and for all of Lord Yanni’s criticisms, it isn’t half-bad. A bit too postured, maybe, but he’ll learn. He’ll grow.

Mikhail slips, pondering over what a few more years of training will do for Prince, no, King Tony’s form. If he’ll get any broader, if those cheekbones are going to get any sharper and sweet Six, he’s really letting this get away from him.

Tony takes advantage of it, too, jabs his rapier forward and hardly gives Mikhail a chance to raise his own.

Blades clash, and Tony meets his eyes between their silver. “You seem distracted,” he whispers.

“You seem cocky,” Mikhail chirps, pushes him back and leaps left.

“Oh, the Nordling has some fight!” Yanni approves. “Now footwork, Prince. Show me what you’ve learned. Pivot, pivot!” Yanni directs, and “Riposte, Prince! Quit dancing.”

But they may as well be in a ballroom, Mikhail thinks as they circle each other deliberately; lunge and thrust, dip and sway.He follows Tony’s lead into a waltz of nimble steps and taunting strikes whose parries pull them closer and closer.

So close that Mikhail could get lost trying to count those eyelashes and cataloguing the soft little cleft of his chin.

There’s something different, intense, in Tony’s eyes now that he can’t quite place, but he knows better than to fall into that trap again.

It’s his turn to catch Tony off guard, because when he rears back, mistakes Tony’s swivel for a lunge and loses his footing, the flat of his pommel smacks his Prince square in the shoulder blade.

He crumbles to the floor trying to save Tony, and effectively lands on top of him.

For a moment, he’s captured by those big, brown eyes, until it dawns on him that he’d just hit his Prince and tackled him to the ground.

“Your Highness, I’m—“ he sputters, clambers off and bows before him on the ground. “I was reckless. I was unthinking and rash and foolish and-“

“Mikhail, it’s okay,” Tony laughs, and Mikhail watches his smile fade when he looks up distraught.

“It’s not. I would never do anything to hurt you. His Highness is the most important and precious thing, and I would do anything to-“

“Mikhail,” Tony sits up, hold out a hand. “Help me up, and then go run a bath.”

//

 Tony winces at the first press of hot cloth against his back, jolts a little.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” The apology is hushed, and Tony can hear the shame. He’d thought it was hilarious, until he realized Mikhail thought he was going to be banished from the Coast.

“For what, besting me?” Tony makes light, rolling his shoulders back to straighten out his spine. “How bad is it?”

The cloth stalls, lingers between his shoulder blades.

“It’s...”

“It’s okay, Mikhail.”

“There’s a mark, your Highness,” Mikhail confesses. “Plum purple, and likely worse tomorrow. I’m—“

Tony turns, cuts him off with his eyes. A thrill of heat he can’t really explain flashes through him at the thought, and suddenly, he needs to see.

“The mirror,” he says, wetting his lips. “Grab it. Let me see?”

Mikhail holds the glass for him, and it’s just as he says. Dark, strong and beautiful…just like its maker.

He nods and doesn’t speak any more of it, which Mikhail appears to be grateful for.

MIkhail starts humming an unfamiliar tune when he goes back to work, and something about the way his deep voice strikes a minor note runs Tony’s mouth dry. “That song, what is it?” He asks, leaning his head back into Mikhail’s hands. Warm water washes over his scalp, Mikhail works the suds from his curls. “Something from up north?”

“Just something that comes to me every now and then, Your Highness,” Mikhail answers vaguely, send another cascade of warm water over Tony’s head. He sets the wooden cup aside, wringing drops from Tony’s locks. “Should I stop?”

“No!” Tony answers, maybe a bit too quickly. “No, it’s....nice. Your voice is nice.”

Mikhail gently turns him so they’re facing, but there’s no way Tony can look into his eyes. He instead studies the way Mikhail’s shoulders move beneath his near opaque, white shirt as he scrubs Tony’s arms, because yes, that helps.

Tony bites the inside of his cheek, risks a glance down Mikhail’s collar as he stoops lower. His chest, yes, the one Tony’s been falling asleep on lately, is surprisingly toned, smooth and Gods if that drawstring would loosen just a bit more, he could see—

“Your Highness?”

“Oh, yes?” Tony asks, snapped from his reverie.

“I asked if the water is still to your liking.”

Tony has half a mind to snatch those damned strings, tug him in and let him see for himself.

“Fine.” Apparently that’s not a good enough answer for Mikhail because he turns for another of the steaming pails and dumps it in.

Tony quietly sighs at the rush of warmth, curls his toes while Mikhail kneels once more. Tony watches him roll up his sleeves and at the sight of those sinewy, tanned forearms, feels that heat seep past his skin and melt his insides.

He’s swiping the cloth cross Tony’s chest now, dragging the sandalwood-scented soap down his torso. Tony stiffens when Mikhail’s hands dip beneath the murky surface and he pushes back a little too quick, sloshing water.

“Ticklish?” Mikhail does that sweet little huff-snort of a laugh Tony loves, and it’s rich, deep and beautiful. “Let me have a leg then.”

Tony easily raises a calf, slings it over the side of the tub and sinks lower, resting his head against the back wall.

Mikhail moves slow, almost deliberately so, Tony thinks. Hands work over his feet, massage circles into his calf and by the time they creep their way up beneath his knee, Mikhail’s staring at him.

Tony knows he must look a sight, parted lips and flat, wet curls clinging to his forehead and flushed cheeks.

But he’s not dense. Mikhail’s eyes are two shades darker, and by the way he’s breathing, seems just as affected. He’s seen that look before in his life, but not like this.

Never from him.

It’s almost a relief when Mikhail releases his eyes, drops his leg in exchange for the other. Tony remembers to breathe, makes himself as he gets the same treatment all over again.

Mikhail recoats his fingers with soap and Tony doesn’t even get to think about the implications because when he’s asked to stand, his mind goes blank.

“Can’t,” He says, earning a curious look from Mikhail.

“There will be time for soaking later, your Highness. Now, please.”

Please. The bastard, he knows what he’s doing. Has to.

Tony grips the side of the tub, pushing up in one, fluid motion before he can think better of it.

If he’s wrong, he’s wrong.

The air is refreshingly cool, hundreds of tiny droplets slip down his body. He watches Mikhail track them as they slither down his chest, waist, his half-hard dick.

Mikhail’s eyes widen.

Appears as if Tony’s not wrong.

The breath that stutters out of him is plainly telling. Palms press flat against Tony’s thighs, snake around and cup just under his ass.

He pulls himself closer, walks on his knees until he rests a cheek against Tony’s leg, looks up at him through his lashes.

Tony raises a dripping hand, bound for Mikhail’s hair. It trembles. They’re actually doing this, Mikhail’s on his knees for him and so, so close to—

A horrid thump echoes through the bathroom, and only when Mikhail scrambles to his feet to whirl Tony around before the door opens, does he realize it was a knock.

“My Prince,” Lord Tyler Johnson hangs in the doorway. “Going to need you to get that cute little ass of yours down to supper. Daddy’s orders.”

“Y-yes, okay, Thank you, Tyler,” Tony calls over his shoulder.

“And you, uh, Michael? A guy named Adam asked if you could help down in the kitchen?”

“Yes, right away, my Lord,” Mikhail all but throws a towel around Tony and scrambles off.

Tony spends a couple seconds taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He turns to step out of the tub when he feels like he’s got his feelings situated for the moment.

And meets Tyler’s smirking eyes.

“Get the hell out of my bathing chamber before I bring the wrath of the entire Six down upon you Tyler!” Tony snaps.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Jesus, I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but there’s no way I’m staying here if you’re gonna be like that.”

“That’s what I just said!” Tony shouts at Tyler’s retreating backside.

Curse the Six that they let he and Mikhail be interrupted in such a rude manner.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been following along so far, and for my oh-so-lovely beta @verhaeghe for her continued support, patience and assistance 💙 you're the best.

Three days.  
  
It’s been three days since that fleeting moment with Mikhail.  
  
Three days of his servant making any and every excuse not to be alone with him for too long.  
  
Three days since he’s drifted off to Mikhail’s tales of the North, or slept through the night for that matter.  
  
Three days since he’s been _touched_.  
  
Yet again, Tony awakes to the sound of his door closing. The room smells of ham and something fruity. Tony looks at the breakfast Mikhail’s sneakily set up across the room. There’s fresh garments hanging near the window and oh.

He supposes he’s meant to dress himself again, too.  
  
Not that he actually _needed_ any help before, thank you.  
  
Tony pushes out of bed, saunters over to his food, turning his nose up like a disinterested cat. How can this interest him when just a few days ago Mikhail was sitting right across from him, catching grapes in his mouth and happily snatching the last strip of bacon?  
  
Whatever, he’s not hungry now.  
  
He shrugs out of his nightclothes, lets the fall to the floor, leaves them sitting there. Let his servant clean it up, if this is how it’s to be.  
  
He slides his robes on, trying not to miss Mikhail’s hands.

But of course, he does.  
  
Dressing himself is boring. He misses Mikhail’s adorable little snort-laugh, the way he rolls his eyes when Tony pretends to not to like the way his tunic pairs with his leggings.  
  
And how Mikhail is always so careful when he layers Tony up, the way his hands smooth over the rich blue and purple silks he likes Tony in best.  
  
Tony know which are his favorites, because he’s said as much before. “ _Radiant, your Highness, just look at what this does for your eyes_!” and Tony wore a smile damn near all day.  
  
His smile is not making an appearance today.  
  
Not when Mathieu tries to cheer him up and tell him about another ridiculous farce Jester Tutti tried to pull in court today, and not when Victor tosses him over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes and twirls him around like he used to do when they were kids.  
  
He’d blown them both off, and maybe he’ll feel a little bad about it later.

But right now he’s boring holes into the back of Mikhail’s head as he cleans the floor.  
  
“Mikhail,” Tony says. His voice comes out more calm than he feels, thank the Six. Misha stops his sweeping. He doesn’t turn around, though.  
  
“Look at me.”

It’s a plea disguised as an order, because apparently that’s the only thing he responds to anymore. But Tony isn’t prepared for Mikhail’s eyes when he turns around.The passive, blank look in them. Detached, and void of their usual light.

Tony almost doesn’t recognize him.

“Yes, Your Highness?” He’s hollow, detached, and how is this what’s happening? Tony has to say something.

“Mikhail, I--” But Tony stops, doesn’t know how to continue with this stranger before him.

“Sorry, I have chores in the kitchen.” Mikhail says, and just like that, he’s gone.

//  
  
Later that night finds Tony laying in his bed, decidedly not asleep. He’s fumbling with the keys to Mikhail’s rooms again, just like he has every night since they almost...  
  
This is enough.  
  
He jiggles open the door, holds up his lantern to illuminate the small, dark space that is Mikhail’s room.  
  
Mikhail lays there, seemingly asleep, back facing Tony, and he hesitates.  
  
But just for a moment. Tony shakes his shoulder twice in quick succession.  
  
“Mikhail,” he whispers. “Mikhail, wake up.”  
  
Mikhail turns over already wide-eyed. Tony can see the dark circles that plague his face. He wonders if he’s had fitful nights, too.  
  
“Your Highness?” Mikhail blinks. “What—“  
  
“I want you to ready my horse. One for you. We’re going.”  
  
“Where?” Mikhail asks, blearily pushing up.  
  
“The Boltwood.”  
  
Mikhail doesn’t question him further, slips out of bed and into the first pair of trousers he can find.  
  
“Meet you at the stables?” Tony asks, and receives and affirmative nod.  
  
When Mikhail departs, he’s left alone in his room. Can he even call it that? The walls are so small, especially for a Prince’s servant, and the lack of natural light perturbs him.  
  
He takes a few minutes to compose himself, to think about what he wants to say, but he doesn’t linger.

Tony finds Mikhail at the stables, slipping the bridle over his horse, Erie’s, muzzle. The bay mare winnies at him, shaking her long, black mane like the princess she is.  
  
He hangs back, watching for a moment as Mikhail clicks his teeth, runs a hand down her neck.  
  
It’s endearing. Attractive, even.  
  
It takes a few minutes, but Mikhail keeps spouting reassurances to her in that low, honeyed voice and she soothes, snorting her surrender.  
  
Erie nuzzles his hand, and Tony gets it. Mikhail had broken him, too.

They saddle up without a word, and Tony spares no time for second-guessing. He leads them beyond the yards of Amalie Palace, down the trail he and Erie have worn throughout years of riding through the Boltwood.  
  
The path ends, and Tony leads them past the tree line, into the labyrinth of knotted trees and underbrush.  
  
Light still fails them, save for the lanterns they’ve hitched to their saddles, and the last of the thunder bugs bobbing about.  
  
If Mikhail is nervous, he doesn’t say anything. Tony supposes he hadn’t given him much of a choice.  
  
There’s a ways to go so Tony sets a quick pace, whisking them through the night. Erie knows where they’re going, but isn’t used to the company. She looks back every once in a while to take note of their curious companions, but guides them on into a glade.  
  
His glade, a clearing of sweetgrass and wildflowers he’d stumbled upon as a boy and has loved ever since. Tony hops off Erie and hitches her to their makeshift post, crosses over to where Mikhail had found his own near the oaks.  
  
“There’s tell of wraiths that roam these woods,” Mikhail says, and it’s the most Tony’s heard from him in days “Demon wolves and wicked hags with huts made of bones. But...”  
  
“But?”  
  
“It’s lovely.”  
  
“Yeah, well. You don’t have to worry about any of them,” Tony pats the hilt of his blade. “I’m quite good with this, you know. I’ll protect you.”  
  
His little smirk goes unreturned, and he instead watches Mikhail swallow, tense his jaw.  
  
“That’s my duty, Your Highness,” he murmurs, his distraught eyes seem black in the moonlight. “It’s my duty to make you safe...happy, and I’ve failed you.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“I made a promise,” Mikhail says, “The night of your nameday, that I would always be here for you. A promise that you could trust me with everything, that I would do my best to unburden you. But I betrayed that trust, Your Highness. That night in the bath, I let my feelings for you overcome me and it was wrong. We can never be and it was reckless of me to pretend otherwise. But if I can continue to be by your side, it’s enough. Please allow me. Please forgive me.”  
  
Tony doesn’t blink, barely breathes throughout the whole spiel. And then Mikhail asks for forgiveness.  
  
Forgiveness.  
  
Tony quirks a brow, narrows his eyes. He parts his frown to suck in a breath.

“No.”  
  
“No,” he repeats, shaking his head, and now he’s angry. “You felt like this the whole time, and didn’t tell me? You left me alone with nothing my imagination for three days and four nights without even asking me how I felt?”  
  
Mikhail bows his head, voice scarcely a whisper. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I do beg your for-“  
  
Tony doesn’t want to hear it again. Can’t. He grabs Mikhail’s collar, shoves him back against an oak.  
  
“You won’t meet my eyes, much less come near me, yet you refuse to leave my head,” he bites. “I’m supposed to rule the fucking kingdom one day, and I can’t even sleep without you by my side! Now you’re telling me we can’t be together?”  
  
“Your Highness...” Mikhail raises his hands, folds them over Tony’s white-knuckled grip. Squeezes.  
  
“Don’t...” Tony’s voice wavers, and just from that, Mikhail’s got him backed down with his tail between his legs. “Don’t touch me if you didn’t mean what you said. And don’t you dare ask for forgiveness because you’ll never have it unless you stop.”  
  
“I have loved you, Your Highness,” Mikhail confesses, daring to stroke a thumb over Tony’s cheek. “Far more, and longer than you could know. The wolves, witches and wraiths could end me now, and I still wouldn’t stop.”  
  
“I thought you don’t like those stories,” Tony exhales when their noses brush, so close they’re sharing air.  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“Then let’s make our own, Misha” The nickname rolls off Tony’s tongue like the most natural thing in the world. “We’ll be a fairy tale.”  
  
Misha kisses him, softly at first, and Tony closes his eyes. He feels Misha breathe him in, feels the gentle catch of teeth on his bottom lip before Misha traps it between his.  
  
Hands worm their way up to Misha’s jaw, playing across the soft skin he finds there. Tony’s a bit stubbly himself, but he thinks he’s forgiven when their tongues slide together, and Misha sighs into his mouth.  
  
“Prince…”  
  
“No titles,” Tony says. “Just you and me.”  
  
And when Misha says his name, those hushed, two syllables burn straight through him.  
  
There’s nothing princely about the way he groans, licks into Misha’s mouth and shoves a hand between them. Nothing civilized in how Misha grinds into his palm, gasps and gropes at every inch of Tony he can manage.  
  
They forget their layers and fall into the soft, pliant patch of grass below. Tony kisses down his chest, whispers, “beautiful,” and it’s an awful understatement. Misha is gorgeous, and so is the moan that leaves his throat when Tony begins unfastening his pants.  
  
He manages to pop open the last, stubborn button of Misha’s poorly-sewn drawers (really, he’s going to see about getting Misha some finer raiment) and oh— would it be wrong to call that beautiful, too?  
  
“Gods,” Tony’s breath is shaky, but his grip is anything but as he takes him in hand, thumbs over the head. “Do you always forgo breeches, or only in late summer?”  
  
Misha’s already leaking for him, and when Tony works it down, up, and down again, he’s fucking glistening.  
  
He wants to taste, savor, swallow him down. Wants the weight on his tongue, the heat and-  
  
He gets none of that- nor an answer- because Misha’s pushing himself up, tugging Tony into his lap and working his trousers free.  
  
It’s funny, Tony thinks, how many times Misha’s undressed him. It’s never been like this, though. Once clinical fingers now fumble with the fabric, and take care not to tear anything despite the crude way in which they’re shoved down his hips.  
  
Honestly, Tony marvels at Misha’s patience.  
  
His own dick clearly has none, flushed crimson and rigid against his stomach once freed.  
  
“Oh,” Misha exhales sharply, as if he hasn’t seen Tony naked before. Hard, even, and despite being bare-assed in the middle of the forest, on Misha’s _thighs_ no less, Tony’s cheeks burn recalling their last bath.  
  
But Misha pulls him closer, encourages both their hands to take them together and makes him forget everything but this.  
  
His legs start to tremble but Misha’s hips roll up to meet him, hastens their grip and no, no, it’s too much. Assuredly so, if Tony keeps watching.  
  
He screws his eyes shut, lets his head fall to Misha’s shoulder, and clings to a fistful of his hair.  
  
“...Tony, I’m-” He doesn’t need to finish for Tony to know he’s right there with him.  
  
“No, me too,” Tony nips beneath his collar, sucks and kisses the reddened skin. “So good. So good, Misha, and next time— even better.”  
  
And at that he feels Misha come, hears him swear his name, and follows suit.  
  
They fall back into each other’s arms, content to be without a word. They drift, and the sun still continues its ascent across the sky. The dawn chorus of birds fade into the hum of cicadas, and wind-rustled leaves.  
  
As it should.  
  
They’re together, and the world doesn’t end. But Tony knows when he looks into Misha’s eyes—when their fingers entwine and kiss-swollen lips meet for the hundredth time that day—it will never be the same.  
  
It’s their fairy tale.

//

His Highness is insatiable, Misha’s found.

It’s the fourth time today that Tony’s hooked his fingers under the rope of his belt and tugged him into an abandoned chamber. The closet beneath the stairwell. The empty nook of the Maester’s tower.  
  
And, now, the thick, bolt-embroidered tapestry embellishing the wing of the Royal Guard. It’s barely long enough to cover their feet, hardly thick enough to shroud their forms, but here they are, stifling giggles between frantic kisses and eager hands.  
  
“We can’t,” Misha smiles against Tony’s lips, pulls back to rest his head against the brick.  
  
“Mm, you’ve been telling me that all day,” Tony sighs, trailing his lips down Misha’s throat. “And I really want you.”  
  
Misha’s laugh comes out as a stifled groan when Tony’s tongue pokes out to taste his pulse.  
  
“Someone has to keep you on schedule,” Misha scolds. “And here of all places? Someone will definitely notice!”  
  
“Then be quiet,” Tony whispers, and by the way Tony shoves a thigh between his legs and rolls his hips, Misha’s convinced he’s evil.  
  
“You can do that for me, right, _Misha_?  
  
It’s been a couple of days, but Misha still shivers like the first time he ever heard the name off Tony’s lips. Lips that currently curl into a smirk, because Tony’s well-aware of this and, yes...  
  
Delightfully evil.  
  
//  
  
Misha watches from afar as Tony finishes his observation of King Anton’s daily audiences.  
  
He’s divine, the way his tan skin glows in his lilac silks and sashes. The dark curls poking out of his jagged gold, sapphire-encrusted crown, and his adorable attempt at matching Anton’s austere demeanor.  
  
Tony’s eyes flitter and find his, and for just a moment, his postured, princely front falters into a small, secret smile. Into Tony.

It feels like the session is going to go on forever, but eventually King Anton and Tony have their last audience and Tony is dismissed.

He bows before the king and follows Tony out of the Grand Hall.

“What would His Highness like for dinner this evening?”

“No.”

“No?” Misha cocks his head, confused.

“I am going to make you dinner,” Tony smiles.

“I don’t think that’s--” Tony cuts off his objection with a kiss. Right there in front of everyone and The Six.

“I want to do this for you,” he says softly.

“O-okay,” Misha stutters out.  
  
“And, um, come hungry?” Tony asks, stealing another kiss.  
  
Misha just gives a dazed grin, knowing he probably looks a fool. “Yeah, yes. What time?”  
  
“Eleven. No earlier, no later.”  
  
“Yes, your Highness,” Misha bows, and he doesn’t need to look up to know Tony’s rolling his eyes.  
  
“Go on, then,” Tony gives a playful shove.  
  
“Eleven,” Misha says, walking a couple steps backwards. He turns, and begins counting down the minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's hungry?

Tony answers the door, a vision in blue, his tunic form-fitting and luminous with silver lacework and embroidery.

“You like it?” Tony asks, giving a half-twirl and yes. Yes, Misha does.

“Um. Yes,” he musters, because the common tongue fails him. “But your hair...”

Tony bats his hand away when he reaches up to touch. “You’ll ruin it,” he grins, and Misha very much wants to, perfect as it is. “I borrowed it from Tyler. Is it too much?”

“No-“

“It’s not permanent. It’s only, ah, some kind of cream and sap from...this plant,--”

“Tony.”

“Thing is, he doesn’t exactly _know_ I borrowed it, but I’m pretty sure this is the amount he uses because-“

Misha closes the distances between them, stifles the rest of his justifications with a kiss.

“You look stunning.”

Tony lets him kiss him a moment more before pulling away.

“There’s supper,” he mutters, and Gods, is Tony lovely when he’s embarrassed, all rosy cheeks and rapid blinks.

Tony takes him by the hand, pulls them to the table he’s scooted against the open window. Moonlight pours in to platinum-covered dishes and oh hell, it is romantic.

“Supper?” Misha asks as Tony bosses him into a seat.

Tony removes the cloches and a curious-scented steam that Misha can’t quite place curls around them.

“Your friend Adam let me use the kitchen,” Tony says proudly. “Well, he offered to help, but I wanted to do this for you myself. I borrowed some books from Lord Stamkos and...”

Tony drones on, doing that cute little rambling thing he does when he’s nervous, and Misha’s heart swells. He sees uneven potato pancakes, wilted, red wine-soaked cabbage, and ill-folded, charred dumplings.

 Northern cuisine.

“Tony...” Misha finally zones back in. “You made this. You _cooked_ for me?”

“Well, yeah,” Tony scoffs, and Misha wants to kiss him again but he takes a seat across from him. “Don’t act so surprised. I am capable of doing things myself.”

The missed button in Tony’s doublet would disagree, but Misha just smiles. Beams. He’s so in love, he thinks he could burst.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Tony blushes brighter, and Misha wants to devour him instead. “Eat. It’s cold enough already.”

He does, and it’s both the worst and best thing he’s ever tasted.

The potato cakes are simultaneously ash and ambrosia, and he swallows without ever taking his eyes off Tony.

“Did I get those right?” Tony asks every few bites, and, “How about that? Is it like you remember?”

Tony doesn’t eat any of the food himself, just watches and worries and Misha is torn between savoring each morsel and wolfing it down so he can get to the main course.

Tony’s made nearly enough for two, but Misha finishes it down to the last crumb.

“So…you liked it?” Tony asks.

“I liked it very much,” Misha says, standing, “but I’d really, really like for you to come over here now.”

Tony may blush like mad, but he’s never shy. He saunters right over and shamelessly gasps, clings to Misha when he pulls him close and sears their lips together.

Tony’s wonderfully light when Misha hoists him up to the table and crowds between his legs, already beginning to work the exquisite, silk robes from his body. He feasts along the wonderful angles of his jaw, up the line of it.

 “You’re so Six-damned _gorgeous_ ,” Misha murmurs into his hear, reveling in the soft moan he gets in response.

He’s determined to show him, too, but Tony stills his hand he slips down his waistband.

“Wait, um,” Tony attempts to catch his breath. “I want you, Misha.”

“Me too.”

“No,” Tony exhales, looking about as serious as Misha’s ever seen him. “I want you to fuck me.”

_Me too_ , Misha wants to repeat, but words fail him as Tony pushes him back and drags him to bed. He shoves a small, glass bottle of oil into his hand-- apparently, he’s pilfered _that_ from Adam’s pantry, too—and pulls Misha down with him.

Tony’s trembling as Misha plants a trail of kisses down his chest, but to be fair, so is he.

"Thought about...doing it myself,” Tony says, wiggling his hips so Misha can work the rest of his garments off. “But I wanted you to do it. I need  to feel you.”

Misha wraps his hand around him, strokes a few times for good measure. “You’re sure?” He asks, though he wants it more than anything. “There’s no rush.”

“Isn’t there?” Tony sighs, arching up into his hand. “Wasted too much time already.”

Tony bends beautifully, pushes down against his knuckles with each twist of his wrist. “Misha...fuck, oh Gods,” he swears, gripping the bedcloth. “More. You can...”

Misha withdraws, carefully circles around him before sinking a second finger into Tony’s perfect heat.

The gasp he receives his glorious, and he wants to hear it again and again forever .

So he does, working him open until he brushes over a spot that has Tony choking out his name.

Tony grabs his hand when he reaches for him, squeezes it tight. “You can’t, or I’ll come,” he warns. “Not yet.”

“No?” Misha brings their hands to his mouth, kisses his knuckles. “What if I want you to?”

“Not until you’re inside me, which should be, uh, right now,” Tony pushes back against the pillows, shoves the bottle at him.

He spreads his legs and yeah. Yes, Misha agrees. But...

“I’m fine,” Tony says, because of course he’s reading his mind. “I’m ready. And, I’ve never...you know, like this, so...you’re fine, too.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“I’m the first?” Misha blinks. “You really want _me_ to be the one?”

“I already told you you’re the one. Now take those off and get over here, or I’ll think you don’t want me.”

It’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard, but Misha can’t have that and obeys, fits himself between Tony’s legs.

“Like this? You’re...?” Misha checks.

“Yeah. Yeah, wanna look at you,” Tony grips Misha’s biceps, digs his fingers in when Misha nudges against him.

Dizzying heat consumes Misha as he slowly pushes in, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Tony’s, watching them flutter closed once he’s sheathed.

“Tony,” Misha strokes his cheek, kisses the corner of his mouth. “Is it too much?”

“M’fine,” Tony shakes his head, flashes a reassuring smile up at him. “You can move. Please, I...I want you to.”

Misha plants his hands on either side of Tony’s head, bends to takes his mouth again as he gently rocks forward.

He holds back just as much for his sake than Tony’s, because Tony is impossibly more perfect than he’d imagined and he’s not about to cut this short.

Not when Tony breathes such sweet, soft little sounds into life, not when he digs his heels into Misha’s back to pull him deeper, and sears that vicious mouth of his across every available patch of skin.

It’s intoxicating how perfect he feels, how he knocks the breath out of Misha with each little squeeze those not-so-little hands give his shoulders, the way he arches and moves, bolder and bolder until he’s got Misha knocking his curls loose.

“M-Misha,” Tony whines, and Gods, this is really happening. “You feel...so fucking good. Love this, love you...”

Misha momentarily falters their rhythm, because fuck if those words don’t pierce through his soul. “Tony, love, I need to touch you now,” he urges, and Tony nods, shudders and sings for him even more when he wraps a hand around his straining dick.

Misha’s drowning in swollen lips and bruising hands, shared gasps and tangled limbs until Tony spills into hand and utterly undoes him.

He cradles Tony’s head, holds him close as he stifles his sounds into the crook of his neck.

The next breath he takes is completely Tony, the lingering cedar and sandalwood of his soap, the salt on his skin and the deeper, headier scent that is indescribably him.

Misha wants to bottle it up, keep it forever.

Keep _him_ forever.

“Look at you...” Misha runs his hand down Tony’s chest, to the dip of his stomach where they’ve made a mess. “So perfect.”

When he brings his fingers to his lips, Tony’s eyes widen before squeezing shut.

“M-Misha, Gods...” A flush creeps down his neck, and Misha wants to taste that, too.

“Stay... Can’t you just stay in here tonight?” Tony asks into his chest.

“You know I can’t, my love,” Misha plants one on his head, tugs him closer. “But I can wait until after you fall asleep, just like every other night.”

But Tony pulls away, and when Misha looks down, he’s met with a scowl. “When I’m King, you’re going to be right here by my side,” he states, and Misha can tell he’s stifling a yawn. “Always. No more sneaking around. You’ll see.”

And it’s a lovely dream, really. Misha buries his nose into Tony’s curls, shuts his eyes.

_We’ll be a fairy tale_ , Tony’s voice echoes.

And, for a while, they are.


	6. Epilogue

_THREE YEARS LATER_

The subsequent three years have yet to deliver their happy ever after, but Misha believes it draws closer with each day.

They fall asleep in each other’s arms every night, and when Misha slips back to his quarters before dawn, he’s welcomed by a down, feathered bed, a generously upgraded wardrobe and, yes...his very own window.

His prince had insisted.

It’s enough. And when it’s not, Tony holds him close, promises, “When I’m king,” and the world is theirs again.

Until it crashes and burns with one little word.

“Marriage,” King Anton repeats to a slack-jawed Tony. “The council agrees, it’s time we secure our alliances.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, curse the Six. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has followed along for the past few weeks and for all of your feedback. This has been such a fun little ride.
> 
> And a HUGE Thank you to my beta, @verbaeghe for dealing with my craziness and offering all the reassurances, aid and wisdom throughout this journey. You're the best <3


End file.
